Five answers
by Rotblume
Summary: One answer Peter offered Stiles and four answers Stiles gave Peter.
1. I like you

Stiles turned around abruptly, unsurprisingly ending up almost nose to nose with Beacon Hill's resident zombie-werewolf (and flailing for just the briefest of moments not to lose his balance).  
This was important and he needed to be taken seriously, but he quickly took a step back as he realized he could feel Peter's breath on his skin because, nope, sorry, but no matter how often that had happened these last few days, he would never get used to it and didn't even want to.

"You've gotta stop this."

The older Hale had been following him for almost three weeks and Stiles _definitely_ had enough. He had started noticing it at Derek's loft first and then it quickly spread out to his own home, the school, the hospital, the Sheriff's station and now apparently the supermarket, as well.  
He really needed to put a stop to it soon because he was already getting paranoid and started hallucinating on those rare exceptions where the wolf was actually not around. And he sure as hell didn't want his father to become aware of _that_ , or the pack for that matter.

"What?" Peter was looking at him confused, frowning and tilting his head like a puppy, and Stiles groaned because he was absolutely pissed off and this was just ridiculous.

How dare that man act as if nothing was happening?  
The man that was cause for most of his problems, by the way, with his breathing and closeness and body heat and those lingering glances and all the casual touches that were anything but casual.

Shaking his head, he tried to clear his thoughts. "Please, don't play dumb. You know exactly what I'm talking about, creeper." Annoyed, he glared at his opposite, "Why are you even doing it?"

The older one simply raised an eyebrow, a mild smile playing on his lips, "And what, pray tell, am I doing right now?"

"You keep talking to me, you are constantly watching me and why the hell are you following me around?", Stiles hissed through gritted teeth, getting louder with every word he spoke. He refused to acknowledge that they were in public, it didn't matter right now.

"Well, to be fair, you started this conversation, so it would be rude not to answer. And it would also be a waste not to look at you", the pedo-wolf remained unfazed, his face still an innocent mask.

"Oh my god." Stiles threw his hands in the air and turned to leave, more frustrated than before, if that was even possible. This just wasn't worth it.

Yet he was stopped by a hand on his wrist and Peter's suddenly rather low voice, "But I've said it before and I'll say it again until you believe me. I like you, Stiles."

And, okay, he hadn't expected to _ever_ hear those words again, especially not in this particular situation. Nor did he expect those words to sound _this_ sincere out of the man's mouth or to see the honesty in his eyes.  
He couldn't really think of any better explanation for the werewolf's behavior though, some kind of villainous motive that explained all that craziness he was subjected to.

Stiles wearily ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, laughing awkwardly, "No one has a heart of stone, they say."

* * *

And thus it came that he didn't complain when Peter started following him through the aisles, commenting on what he was throwing in the cart or suggesting recipes every now and then. He even ignored the glances sent their way.  
It wasn't as if it really hurt to have him around. This way, at least, he could keep an eye on him, or so Stiles told himself.


	2. No

By now, Stiles was used to coming home and finding the one or other werewolf in his room. Derek, Scott and on one memorable occasion even Isaac. They would be standing by the window or behind the door, sitting at his desk when he came in or going through his things while waiting for him.  
It was all about information and help. Information on new monsters or maybe relationship advice (please, notice the irony: he wasn't better off with his previous crush on Lydia, than Derek and his former hunter-girlfriend or Scott and his current hunter-girlfriend) and help to try to get rid of said monsters or to treat some wounds, figuratively and literally when they didn't want to listen to Deaton (as if Stiles talked any less).

But now Peter was taking it to a whole other level. The man was lying on his _bed_.  
Stiles sighed, knowing he wouldn't get his stalker to get up and go away if he didn't want to get up and go away. So instead of trying to do the impossible, he sat down at his desk and turned to do the homework that should have been finished a week ago (but had to give place on his priority list to a rabid unicorn), intent on ignoring the older Hale.

It was surprisingly easy, right up until he began to speak. "Do you like me?"

Stiles spun around so quickly, his chair might have creaked ominously. Or maybe it had been his neck. "What?", he spluttered, before taking a deep breath and trying to calm his racing heart beat. He wouldn't allow Peter to call him a liar again, not _now_. " No."

He must have imagined it, but he'd swear he saw the corners of the man's lips twitch ever so slightly, saw his eyes turn brighter for the briefest of seconds. In the next moment everything was back to normal, or as normal as the werewolf ever could be, as if nothing had happened at all.  
Relaxed posture, smirk and the small laugh lines around Peter's eyes noticeable. How those came to be, he didn't want to know. And he didn't want to know _why_ he even paid them any attention.

"How can you be so sure?", the other man asked almost casually.

"Well, I don't know." Stiles rolled his eyes, "Wait, **maybe** because I should know what I am feeling. You know, me being me and all that." He turned back towards his work, hoping the discussion was over. He didn't like to talk about feelings, especially not with someone like Peter. Or, just with Peter, since he seriously doubted there were any other people like him.

"To me it sounds like you're trying to convince yourself", the older Hale replied at last, scoffing, yet with a hint of something akin to pain shining through the layers of his voice.

At that, Stiles glanced over his shoulder, but he was alone, the man already gone, his window still open.  
And _if_ he lay down where Peter had lain, just to check if the ruffled sheets were still warm, no one would know, nobody but his stalker perhaps.


	3. Maybe

It hurt. His whole fucking body hurt so fucking much Stiles actually wished for unconsciousness to escape the pain, even if that meant he'd be defenseless against Peter. It wasn't as if he had a chance against the man awake and healthy, to begin with.  
Odd to think that the older Hale wasn't even the problem here, was in fact the _least_ of his worries and more of a help, right now, considering he was dragging his sorry ass home to his father. At the thought of the Sheriff, Stiles tried to straighten himself, but it was difficult, hanging limply at Peter's side and with some cracked ribs to make breathing difficult as it was.

In the werewolf's defense, though, he _had_ offered carrying him. However, Stiles' pride had of course refused.  
Well, maybe not just his pride, but he didn't feel like analyzing his emotions behind that decision at the moment. No, he felt more like … - well, it felt as if the pain were abating.

Stiles blinked down to the hand slung around his back and resting on his hip. It had somehow sneaked beneath all the different layers he had worn to weaken some of the hits he knew he'd take.  
Nevertheless, even at 2 am in the dark of the night he could make out the black veins leading from his companions fingertips up his forearm.

"I assume your Dad would not be very happy to see me after my nephew dragged you into the fight."

Despite his sluggish thinking process, Stiles noticed the insult and felt the need to defend the younger Hale and himself, "It wasn't Derek's fault. No one drags Stiles anywhere." He deliberately ignored the precarious position he was in.

Glancing down on his slack form, which he was by now carrying more than anything else, Peter raised an eyebrow, "Sure. So are you at least going to call me?"

"What? Why?" Stiles _seriously_ began to consider the possibility of having a concussion, as well, because he had no idea when the concept of calling each other became relevant to their non-existing relationship. "You'll have finished your job the moment I close the door behind me. I really don't need no more worrying werewolves."

"I just want to make sure you're okay when I'm not there."

Stiles wasn't certain he was not just imagining it when the man's hand inched up his side after that comment, grip tightening somewhat.  
It might not even mean anything, seeing as he was also stumbling more and more, now that the adrenaline had left him, on wobbly legs. Or seeing as he was shivering, instinctively turning to the nearest source of warmth which fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who you asked, was Peter.

"Okay, yeah. I mean maybe", he conceded, desperately and determinedly ignoring the fuzzy warm feeling of belonging that he blamed the werewolf for. It surely was connected to the relief the zombie-wolf gave him by easing his pain, nothing more and definitely _not_ because of the rush of misplaced affection that made his knees buckle beneath him.

* * *

It happened just a few hours later that Stiles sat down with his phone pressed to his ear, indeed calling the older Hale and listening to the ringing for no more than two times before the man answered.

"So you decided to call." There was a beat, then, "Thank you."

"I'm just calling to let you know that I am still alive. And that I'm feeling better than before or at least better than when you didn't take the pain away." Stiles cleared his throat, "I mean, it's not like I **missed** you or something."

Peter sighed on his side of the line, "I didn't expect you to, Stiles. But I'm glad you called anyway."


	4. Not now

It didn't foreshadow the Apocalypse - Stiles had checked in several respectable and reliable chat-rooms for any signs of the plagues or an increase of certain natural catastrophes, as well as some not so legitimate or official sources for anything that might even hint at the end of the world as he knew it and found nothing.  
Now, one might conclude that it simply did not mean the end of the world, but it meant the end of his. Even if not all was lost, his sanity certainly was.

Nothing would get someone in his right mind to call Peter so often that they knew his number by heart. That they had created a short cut for speed dial, as well. That they had his profile in their favorites and being number one in the list of recently chosen contacts.  
It was simply not natural. In fact, it created such a disorder in his mind that he would have blamed _that_ chaos for calling the werewolf if it had not only started the day before, when he had _realized_ he was calling him this often.

Stiles already felt a headache building, his misery not the least bit improved by that annoying ringing he had to listen to.  
Opening his window to get some fresh air, he was contemplating hanging up when finally Peter picked up.

"Stiles? What a surprise", the man chuckled softly. "I was just thinking of you."

"Uhm. Well, that's great - thanks, I guess. But, actually, I think I made a mistake", Stiles stumbled over the words like a kid trying to ask his crush out. Which, in his opinion, was an entirely inappropriate and totally unfitting comparison.

For a moment only silence followed that admission, then a guarded, almost cold answer, "Okay."

Stiles breathed out a puff of air he hadn't known he was holding, "That's it? That's all you have to say?" He blinked once, twice. That was not what he had expected. Then again, he also hadn't expected it to _hurt_.

"Oh, so that's how it goes", the older Hale huffed a bitter laugh. "All right, then. What do you want to hear? I could ask you if you were willing to make another mistake and … and go out with me?"

And if Peter's voice cracked on the last words none of them mentioned it. Stiles wasn't even sure the other man acknowledged it.  
He, however, did acknowledge the dark shadow some hundred feet away from the house.

He closed his eyes, biting his lip, before heaving a sigh, "Not now."

"What? Who said anything about now?"

The older Hale sounded actually confused, so Stiles indulged his curiosity with an _almost_ fond smile on his lips, "I can see you from my window, Peter."

The shadowy figure turned around, a flash of blue burning it's way into his soul as the werewolf stared up at him.  
It appeared as if the stars themselves were reflected in Peter's gaze and he momentarily lost his focus, but the faint sound of breathing on the other end of the line brought him back and shook him out of his stupor.

"You do realize that you're standing in front of the Sheriff's house, right? And that people **might** become suspicious?"

"I'm wounded. Don't tell me you're trying to get rid of me." The other man dramatically placed a hand over his heart.

"Never in a million years", Stiles answered honestly, shaking his head at himself and the mere idea of it.


	5. Yes

Stiles believed in the theory that catastrophes were the consequence of a series of unfortunate events. And that, in turn, miracles were the consequence of a series of good used opportunities.  
Just the thought that most people wouldn't exist if it wasn't for a train coming too late, causing their parents to run into each other that would've never met otherwise, or if it wasn't for a mutual friend bringing them together on a party one didn't want to go to, at first, or something equally trivial.

But let's stay with the catastrophes, since one had just parked in front of the house and was at that _very_ moment coming up the stairs, in the form of his father, being (for once in his life) too early.  
Stiles mentally went over a list of all the possible hiding spots and ended up haphazardly pulling Peter into the direction of the bathroom, since under the bed and in the wardrobe was no room, besides the fact that those two places were far too _obvious_ for his liking.

He was eternally grateful that Peter didn't fuss, but instead followed quietly, probably still berating himself for not hearing the car earlier.  
Stealthily, they made it to the bath, where Stiles instantly closed and locked the door behind them, before glancing around in search of a distraction. He shoved Peter into the shower and turned the water on, a hand over his mouth to keep him silent.

The werewolf narrowed his eyes at him, though there was no heat behind the glare, and Stiles was inclined to make a joke about wet dogs, or maybe cats, since the other man didn't seem too happy to get wet.  
He, on the other hand, was rewarded with the sight of an already tight v-neck clinging to all the right places, water drops on Peter's lashes and running down his skin. He focused on a particular slow one, watching as it slid from his temple over the cheekbone to his chin and then all the way down his neck, before it disappeared in the fabric of the shirt the older Hale wore.

Stiles nervously ran his tongue over his lips, glancing up just in time to see Peter following the movement with his eyes.  
He could barely hear the rushing sound of the water over his own heartbeat, then, and was shocked out of his daze by a loud knocking on the door.

"Stiles? I'm home early today, kiddo. I'll start on dinner, so just come down when you're finished and hungry."

"Okay, Dad", he called back, voice _unusually_ high-pitched, even for him.

Stiles quickly tiptoed to the door, pressed an ear against it and heard the faint footsteps of his father fading away. This once, they had been lucky.  
He returned with a wide grin, grateful for the additional time they'd have now to get Peter out of the house and imagining him to walk home in the state he was in. But Peter didn't appear to be that amused, pulling him under the shower spray, as well, and pressing him up against the wall, the cold tiles a stark contrast to the warm body in front of him.

A shiver ran down his spine, even before Peter breathed against his lips, "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes", Stiles only nodded numbly.

* * *

"So much for not getting involved, huh?", Sheriff Stilinski hid his knowing smirk behind a cup of hot coffee, watching as his son and their guest nursed their own drinks while shivering under some blankets, teeth chattering and still dripping wet.

 _He_ got his answer in the form of a sneeze.


End file.
